


Him.

by Star_Tsar



Category: Sing (2016)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Family, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Tsar/pseuds/Star_Tsar
Summary: Ash's life, along with everyone else's, had become measurably better after the performance on the old theatre's ruins, and they were all getting to be very close-knit. They had become a family. But fears rise that Ash may not be as over her ex-boyfriend as she makes herself out to be, and she pushes away anyone who tries to talk to her about it. He broke her heart, but Ash still loves him. This, combined with Lance's own amorous chicanery leads to conflict between Ash and her new family, and drama ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

_Him._

Chapter One

Ash didn’t speak to her parents, and didn’t have any family besides, and Rosita knew this; so, a couple times a week, she’d get Ash out of that lonely apartment and have her over for dinner with her own family. They’d all sit around the table, Norm joking with the kids and Rosita telling Ash to eat more. Ash never thought of herself as liking children, but Rosita and Norm’s kids were always fun to be around--they were all old enough to have their own personalities and, probably because there were so many of them, they never singled Ash out or made her feel like anything but another family member. A few of them, like Carla and Hannah, had even taken to calling her “Aunt Ash”.

Rosita and Norm’s house was cozy, and the comfy working class smells of drippings and pine-sol wafting up permeated the abode. Rugs and throw pillows, doilies and little knick knacks, all the things Ash never had (but secretly relished) could be found in spades. The cascading noise of fifty little feet scurrying around, laughing little voices, and Rosita occasionally telling someone what or what not to do were some of the immediately noticeable sounds of the place, and where Ash (uncharacteristically) enjoyed peace and quiet every once in awhile, she didn’t mind the clamorous cacophony of Rosita’s home. She couldn’t explain it, but it made her feel safe.

After dinner, the kids would scramble out of the kitchen and get back to their own little lives, Norm would sometimes help Rosita with the dishes but he’d usually just march upstairs to his den, and Ash would sit at the table and talk with Rosita about whatever was going on in their lives or at the theatre. Sometimes one of the little girls would walk in to join the conversation and see what grown-up girl talk is like, leaving once she’d gotten bored or sent out (if Ash and Rosita had to broach a serious subject).

“If he really needs to leave one day he could just walk out the front door, it isn’t like the principal will tackle him,” Said Ash, Hannah sitting in her lap, to Rosita.

“He doesn’t like to break the rules, you know that,” stated Rosita, craning her neck to look out the window above the sink. It was passed the winter solstice, and the sun still hanged in the sad orange sky. “I’ve been trying to work with the school to see if I can get permission to check him out in emergencies or if he’s sick, because-”

“It just seems like a lot of trouble for nothing. If it’s a _real_ emergency, he can _just leave_. No one’s going to stop him,” Ash interrupted, playing with Hannah’s hair.

“His father’s in prison, Ash. It’s hard enough on Johnny to have to work for himself, go to highschool, and be a ward of the state without getting in trouble at school,” said Rosita, turning toward the porcupine with eyebrows raised. Ash smirked and Rosita rolled her eyes, turning back to the dishes.

“Well, no one _needs_ to finish high school,” said Ash, smirking harder and looking at Hannah.

“That’s not funny, Ash. Don’t listen to her, Hannah,” Rosita turned back again to face them and twisted a wet towel in her hands, as if she were going to pop Ash with it.

“O-okay, I’m sorry,” Ash sat up, smiling and  holding Hannah between herself and the piglet’s mother. Rosita gave her own contented little smile and turned back to the sink. Ash leaned back and let go of the giggling little girl. “Lance dropped out of high school, he was always arguing with the teachers.”

It was starting to worry Rosita how much Ash had been bringing up Lance, and she had been doing it more often as time went by. Rosita, along with Buster, had gradually become the parental figures of the Theatre gang--and the last thing she wanted for Ash was for her to go back to an emotionally abusive relationship. Lance was horrible to her.

“Lance was too smart for high school anyway-” Ash began, before being interrupted by Rosita.

“Hannah, how about you go play somewhere else for a little while, okay?” asked Rosita, wiping her wet hands on her apron. It had already dawned on Ash what was about to happen, and it made her nervous.

“Okay, Mommy,” the piglet jumped down from Ash’s lap and scurried out of the kitchen. Rosita, by this time, had already sat in the chair facing Ash, with crossed legs and motherly eyes staring at her. Ash did everything she could to not meet this gaze, but ultimately failed. Rosita caught her eyes, and they sat in silence for awhile.

“Ash…” Rosita began, reaching onto the table and putting her hand on Ash’s.

“Wait, come on… I don’t want to do this,” Ash squirmed in her seat a pulled her hand away.

“Sweetie, I know it’s hard, but sometimes…” Rosita leaned forward, doing her best to give good advice without offending the teenager. “When you’ve spent years of your life with someone, living with someone, it can be hard to move on. Even when you think you have already-”

“Stop, stop, just--please. I don’t want to talk about this right now, or ever,” Ash interrupted, scooting her chair back and standing up.

“Okay, okay, I understand,” Rosita assured, also slowly rising from her seat. “You know I only want what’s best for you, and I’m just not sure that you aren’t thinking of getting back into a harmful relationship-”

“It’s getting late, I’m going to head home,” Ash said calmly, trying to defuse the motherly intrusion before it became a lecture.

Rosita was about to try to convince her to stay, but looked at the kitchen clock and saw that it actually _was_ getting late. She paused for a moment, and then said, “Well, it’s going to rain tonight, let me drive you home, okay? We don’t have to talk about anything on the way.”

Ash stood there for a few seconds, then said, “Okay.” They left the house shortly thereafter, once Rosita told Norm to watch the kids while she was gone.

* * *

 

When Rosita said they didn’t have to talk about anything on the way, Ash didn’t think she meant they wouldn’t speak at all. The entire drive had been silent, save the quiet songs emanating from the car speakers; the soft, Elton John type music they’d play on certain stations around nightfall. The first drops of rain hit the windshield as Rosita navigated the city streets, the streetlamps flickering on and Ash peering listlessly out of the passenger side window. The rain was supposed to come in heavy and last a few days, but Ash liked rain, so she wasn’t bothered. Occasionally Rosita would glance over at her, afraid that she had put Ash into this depressed mood. She should have known better: Ash was still upset over her break-up with her boyfriend, and everyone at the theatre knew better than to bring him up.

_It’s not her fault,_ Ash thought, _she’s right_. Ash had been thinking more about Lance, lately. And worrying about him. Ever since they met in high school, Ash had taken care of Lance: keeping him out fights; making him go to class (enough to pass, at least); making sure he didn’t fall in with the wrong crowd; and letting him sleep over when he didn’t have anywhere else to stay. That was back when Ash still spoke to her parents. In fact, it was because of her relationship with Lance that she and her parents had stopped speaking.

It all became much more intense once they moved in together, after she graduated a year early and Lance dropped out. Along with their relationship, Ash’s responsibilities evolved: keeping Lance from trying to fight with the police; making sure he didn’t get addicted to whatever drug-du-jour his garbage friends tried to make him do; and, overall, just making him act like an adult. Looking back, Ash figured she never knew the _real_ Lance until they moved in together. She’d always thought that his unkempt, _homeless-chic_ style in high school was just an effect of his bad home life (and maybe part of it was) but she found herself arguing with him over things like basic hygiene. He refused to bathe regularly, and Ash had to force him to brush his teeth--he said he _didn’t like the feel of it_. Ash actually had to cry the first time they fought about it before he broke down and brushed them.

There were a thousand little things like that, things they fought over. Ash had to make sure Lance didn’t stay up all night, make him take his medicine when he was sick, calm him down whenever he threw one of his temper tantrums (which he did often) and he fought her every step of the way. Everything was a some great struggle with Lance, a struggle for freedom, a struggle for power. Asking him to help do the dishes was no different to asking him to give up a kidney. Lance was an overgrown child at best, and a puerile megalomaniac at worst. Ash was strong emotionally, especially for a teenager--but she loved Lance, and some of their worst arguments would end with her crying.

But Lance was more given to tears than Ash, and he cried much more than his girlfriend (although he would deny it vehemently, even as tears streamed down his face).

Above all her other responsibilities, Ash’s greatest was earning a living for herself and Lance. While her boyfriend sat at home playing video games and twanging on his guitar, she’d drag herself to work at a shoe store in the mall every day to pay the bills and buy Lance more games and comic books. She did this, not only out of love but for the sincere belief that Lance was a musical genius, and one day soon they’d be living the dream.

She still believed Lance was a genius, even after he betrayed her.

Lance’s intelligence was very important to him, and the primary locus by which he defined himself. Spending his entire life building himself up as a genius in his own mind, as well as always being told how smart and talented he was (mostly by Ash) made him especially sensitive to attacks on his mental prowess. Ash, having an intimate understanding of Lance and his mind, knew this, and whenever one of their quarrels sent her over the edge and she really wanted to put him in his place, she’d point out that he didn’t finish high school and didn’t even have a GED (usually in a crass way, and suggesting that he wasn’t smart enough to achieve these things).

The result was always the same. Immediately after, Lance would throw a temper tantrum and lock himself in their bedroom, crying his eyes out for an hour or two while Ash calmed down and started to regret saying it. Afterwards, she’d knock on the door and try to coax him out sweetly while he’d lay brooding. At some point, he’d emerge and go on a lengthy tirade heavy laden with advanced philosophical concepts on how the ‘modern paradigm of education is destroying life as we know it’, and how autodidacticism is the stuff of the true intelligentsia. Ultimately, it was only to make himself feel smart, and Ash would still have to apologize up and down and tell him how smart he was for a couple days--then things would go back to normal.

Ash once considered going even further and pointing out to Lance that he couldn’t even tie his own shoelaces, and needed her to do it for him whenever they came untied (which was true) in such a way as to heavily imply that he was mentally subnormal; but Lance was known to threaten suicide regularly, and Ash was afraid he might actually go through with it if she said that to him.

But they had plenty of good times, too.

“Ash?” said Rosita.

“Huh? What?” answered Ash, snapping out of it. They had nearly arrived at her apartment, and they’d just cruised by some seedy bar called the _Capra Lounge_. The rain was pouring down, now.

Rosita glanced over. “I know I said I wouldn’t pry anymore, but… your ex-boyfriend hasn’t been texting you, or calling you in the middle of the night or anything, has he? Because if he has then we can-”

“No, he hasn’t texted me or anything. Don’t worry about it,” answered Ash.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, in the Capra Lounge.

“So why did Becky kick you out, Lance?” the ibex behind the bar asked.

“She was going through my phone while I was nappin’,” said Lance, the aspergic genius himself. Leaning back in his chair and scratching his head, he continued, “She saw that I texted Ash after her show.”

“She kicked you out, just for that?” The ibex replied, cleaning a glass. The bar was closed (and Lance was underage) but his little brother Bozzio ( _pronounced bo-zee-oh_ ) was Lance’s drummer, so it was all copacetic.

“Becky’s problem... is that she has trust issues,” answered Lance, and all of the four or so other people in the bar snickered. Ever since Becky kicked him out of her apartment, he’d been staying at Bozzio’s place. Because Bozzio’s brother ran the Capra Lounge, and their father owned it, Lance’s crew would play a gig there every other day.

Lance’s “band” was mainly constituted of instrument-playing goons that Lance brought on just so he could scream at and mooch off them. As a result, there was a high rate of turnover in the band’s members. However, Bozzio (an alpine ibex who grew up in Little Italy in Manhattan) was proving to be more loyal than the average goon, and could take just as much abuse as Lance could dish out--so he was quickly becoming the porcupine’s best (and only) friend. As sad as that was.

“I’m done with Becky, anyway,” said Lance sitting up and crossing his arms. “It’s time I got Ash back.”

“Aw, tired of cuddling with me, Lance? Miss your comic books?” said Bozzio, mockingly.

“Shut the fuck up, Bozzio,” answered Lance, nonchalantly. “I’ll have you know that I love Ash, and I can’t stand to be apart from her,” he continued, just as nonchalant.

“Well, it’s not like it’ll be hard. You didn’t even actually cheat on her,” said Bozzio’s big brother.

“Well… Cheating’s different for girls… I never slept around on Ash, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t cheat. Y’know, for girls, the emotional aspects of the relationship are more important than the… physical parts,” Lance ran his fingers through his quills. “Ash is upset that I was romantic with Beck, and… Listen, I don’t claim to be an expert on why women feel the way they do-”

“Wow, that’s just… shattered my world, Lance. I thought you were, like, the next Lord Byron or something,” said Bozzio, sarcastically. “What makes you think she’ll take you back, then?”

“Bozzio…” Lance smirked. “Ash may _think_ she’s Straight Edge, but she’s one-hundred percent **_addicted_ ** to this!” Lance gestured toward himself. “Relapse is imminent, Bozzio, _inexorable_!”

“So your plan is to sit around my apartment and wait for her to come crawling back to you, even though _you’re_ the one who cheated on _her_?” Bozzio swiveled around in his seat to face Lance.

“I didn’t say that. Ash is a strong girl. She has morals, y’know, a sense of justice; not like you degenerates,” said Lance, and everyone present raised their glasses. “Now, while it’s obvious that **I’m** the victim in all of this, the only thing Ash cares about is that I’ve been bad to her. She still loves me, though; so all she needs to see is me at my lowest… broken and abused, with no one else in this whole wide world…” Lance cooed, hands gesticulating and head shaking to make the scene. “She needs to see that I’ve learned my lesson, and then she’ll be satisfied. Then she’ll take me back.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Bozzio began. “Is that you’re just going to look as pathetic as possible and hope she pities you enough to take you back.”

“Y- Well, yeah. That’s, uh, on the face of it... In layman’s terms, that’s what I’m gonna do,” said Lance. “Of course, it’s much more complex when you get to the real mechanisms of it. It plays on the modern paradigm of... essential occidental morality as, uh, as influenced by the abrahamic imperative that the, uh, the… Listen, it’s all very philosophical and you ingrates wouldn’t be able to appreciate it even if I explained it to you! So let’s just get down to it,” Lance stood up. “Now, I’ve been checkin’ it out, alright? I happen to know that Ash walks down Valadaro Street on her commute every day, and it’ll be raining tomorrow. Now, so that it looks like Becky was _especially bad_ to me (and I’ve learned my lesson about runnin’ around behind Ash’s back), I need one of you to punch me in the face and give me a black eye-”

“Oh, hell yes!” Bozzio hopped down from his stool and lunged toward the porcupine, slamming his fist into Lance’s left eye socket and knocking him onto the floor.

“ **Ow! J- God damn, Bozzio!** It was supposed to look like a girl did it!” screamed Lance.

“Ooh, sexist. A woman can’t hit as hard as a man?” mocked Bozzio, standing over his friend as the rest of the group tried to contain their laughter.

**“Shut the fuck up, Bozzio!”** screamed Lance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I actually think it's very sweet, in it's own way.

Chapter Two

Ash awoke to the low rumble of thunder, in a cold apartment and a queen-sized bed, eyes fluttering open to see Lance’s side of the bed still empty. She couldn’t help but to see it that way, along with every other Lance-shaped hole in her life. But she had to try and banish these thoughts, even if it was just so she could say she tried. Ash grabbed her pillow and turned her head the other way. Her alarm clock flashed 7:30 AM in blocky red letters. It hadn’t gone off. It was her day off from work. Normally this would come as a happy surprise to Ash, considering she hated working at that mind numbing, soul killing shoe store--but today it presented a very big problem. With no plans, no ride, and no one she was willing to talk to, Ash was about to spend an entire day alone with heartache and bittersweet memories.

She could always walk down to the Moon Theater and try to sneak in some guitar practice, but there was always the chance Buster or someone else would waltz in and try to give her some sit-down talk like Rosita did yesterday. They only did it because they loved her, and Ash knew that, but it just wasn’t the kind of thing she could talk to them about; the terrible irony of the situation being that it was Lance’s fault she felt this way, but he was the only person Ash wanted to talk to.

Ash laid in bed, struggling to suppress such thoughts, but she eventually acquiesced. All her life she’d heard folksy little maxims like _It has to get worse before it can get better_ , and this must’ve been one of those times. She figured that this was just the kind of suffering someone _had_ to feel. She sighed and slid out of bed, sauntering to the kitchen and rubbing her head. Ash was a teenager, and didn’t really _need_ coffee, but she drank it anyway; with sweet n’ low and half n’ half. Lance would always pour three or four tablespoons of sugar in his coffee and half a cup of whole milk in along with it. How he didn’t die after more than two cups of the stuff was beyond Ash.

The porcupine stepped over to the kitchen window, listening to the raindrops smacking against the window pane and watching the storm bombard the city streets below. She brought her coffee mug up to her mouth with both hands and felt her stomach rumble. Around this time Lance would be sitting on the couch in boxers and a tee shirt while Ash prepared a special breakfast for the two of them; dipping bread for french toast and listening to Lance watch cartoons in the living room. And smiling when she heard his dopey little laugh.

Ash smiled, but felt like crying. She grabbed a granola bar and sat on the couch, peeling back the wrapper and flicking on the television. It wasn’t an especially nutritious meal, but Ash wasn’t in the mood to prepare some big breakfast she’d have to eat alone. The weather report was on, saying that the storm would subside into light showers later in the day, but resume in the evening. Ash thought about finding a show that was actually interesting, but all the shows she liked were ones she and Lance would watch together.

But there was no reason to try and avoid the memories anymore, Ash realized they were going to find her no matter what. She couldn’t even hide in her music. Her most well-known composition was about Lance, first of all, and her guitar only reminded her of Lance’s. They played twin Stratocasters, Ash’s candy red and Lance’s candy blue (Lance affectionately referred to them as the _Strat-o-candies_ ). But now, like Ash and Lance themselves, the twins had been split up.

Between the two of them, Ash was the more talented guitarist, but Lance had a more technical understanding of the instrument and could coax a wider range of sounds from it. Lance was also more practiced at reading and writing sheet music than Ash. He considered himself a virtuoso (as did Ash) and had another guitar besides the blue strat-o-candy: a Gibson SG he had heavily modified and used for his experimental rock and jazz (the strat-o-candy he used exclusively for playing punk with Ash). It was sitting in it’s case next to the couch, stood against an amp. Ash knew he must be missing it.

Ash knew Lance must be missing a lot of his stuff, considering it was all still in her apartment. The place looked as if he’d never even been kicked out. All of his little Russian novels and art books still littered the place, a half-read copy of _War and Peace_ holding up a stack of his Frank Zappa and Marc Bolan albums. He always swore he’d finish reading it, but never did. His Xbox One rested next to the television, and his white and red chuck taylors (his favorite pair of shoes, out of the two he owned) still sat by the front door.

_I wonder if his shoes have come untied yet,_ thought Ash.

The storm was starting to die down, and the clouds had become a noticeably lighter shade of grey. Just like the forecast predicted, it was barely spritzing outside. Ash, still sprawled out on the sofa, looked out the window then at the half-eaten granola bar she’d thrown on the coffee table. There was a nice little café around the corner she liked, and it crossed her mind to pop down to it while she could.

* * *

 

“I don’t know, Bozzio... “ said Lance, holding his smartphone against the side of his head. “She’s never this late getting to work… Unless she got fired or something.”

A smart-alecky sounding comment buzzed through the phone.

“You know what? Shut the fuck up, Bozzio!” Lance ended the call and slid the phone into the front right pocket of his soaked jeans. He’d been sitting next to the sidewalk with his guitar case and pretending to cry since six in the morning. “ _I hope she’s okay,_ ” Lance muttered to himself, picking up his guitar case and starting back toward the Capra Lounge. His black eye wouldn’t heal for a few more days, or at least to the point it wouldn't elicit as much sympathy (or pity) from Ash, so he figured today’s failure wasn’t anything to worry about.

Walking down the sidewalk with his wobbly gait and humming a few bars from _Joe’s Garage_ , Lance dragged his hardshell guitar case passed some cutesy diner called the Paradise Café. He looked down at his black sneakers, waterlogged and laces tied up in mangled knots. Ash usually tied his shoelaces for him. Becky just laughed when he asked her to do it.

“Lance?” uttered a familiar voice.

“Huh?” Lance looked up to see Ash’s beautiful blue eyes shooting through his own. They’d turned the corner at the same time. “U-Uh, Hey-”

“What happened to your eye?” asked Ash, concerned and stepping toward Lance.

“U-Uh…” Lance looked down and took a little step back. He was jumping for joy on the inside, but also nervous. His plan had already started to work, and on accident; but he had to play the part right. “I don’t know…”

Ash pursed her lips, worried, seeing the once proud Lance hanging his head dejectedly. Then, she noticed the tracks of his tears running down from his piercing green eyes. She covered her mouth with one hand and stepped closer, “Lance… Have you been crying?”

Lance glanced up, making eye contact with Ash for a fraction of a second before his eyes darted back down. He wiped his nose and said, “N-no…” making sure to crack his voice.

“Oh, Lance…” Ash took him by the arm.

After exchanging a few choice words, Ash had convinced the despondent Lance to enter the cafe with her, if only to see what had happened to him.

And Lance worked his magic.

“That… That bitch,” Ash wrapped her arm around Lance’s and pressed up against him. “Lance, listen to me. It isn’t your fault, okay? You don’t deserve this.”

Lance, who was still looking down, replied timidly, “Yes I do.”

“What?” asked Ash.

“I do deserve it, Ash,” said Lance, glancing up once more into Ash’s eyes. “After what I did to you…” Lance’s eyes darted back down and he shut them tight, even managing to conjure up some little tears.

Ash could only be silent, feeling her own tears starting to well up. Seeing him sitting there, broken, unwashed and in dirty clothes, his shoelaces all jumbled up from were he’d tried to tie them himself--and his cute buck teeth, it was all too much.

“Lance…” Ash cooed, and they were silent for awhile. Then she kissed him on the cheek, and it took Lance everything he had to contain his excitement. “Come on, you can get a shower at home, and some fresh clothes,” Ash said, tenderly grabbing Lance’s hand and standing up.

“O-Okay,” Lance stuttered, standing up with her.

* * *

 

The storm raged in the night air, and the steady patter of rain hitting the window could be heard along with Ash’s soft snoring. She was curled up next to Lance, who was still awake and smiling contentedly with his arms crossed. Finally, he was back in his own bed. He looked over, at his _girlfriend_ , as she reached up in her sleep and grabbed his arm to cuddle.

Lance heard his phone vibrating on the little table next to his side of the bed. Carefully reaching over with his free hand, he plucked it up and examined it. Bozzio had sent him a text asking, **Where are you?**

Lance smirked. Shifting his weight carefully, he snuggled up to Ash and raised his phone to snap a picture. He did, and sent it in reply.

And the patrons of the Capra Lounge rejoiced.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Ash wasn’t proud of herself, but she wasn’t ashamed either. She didn’t know what to feel. Maybe she shouldn’t have taken Lance back so easily, or at all, but there was no going back now. He was laying there beside her, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, backed by the sound of the early morning drizzle.

Ash didn’t know what to feel, but she knew what she wanted, and she wanted Lance to stay right there, sleeping next to her. Only a few days ago she’d be spending this time with her face buried in her pillow, tormented by thoughts of Lance sleeping in Becky’s bed (or on the street), but now Ash was laying awake and hoping she’d never have to get up. Surely it couldn’t be so wrong if it felt so right, to have Lance back where he belonged. It was as if nothing had changed since they spent their first night in the apartment, or the very first night they’d ever slept together (back when Lance had to sneak in through Ash’s bedroom window if they wanted to cuddle). Their relationship was too much to throw away, Ash had convinced herself, over one misstep. They were meant to be together, and it’d take a lot more than someone like _Becky_ ruin that.

And it wasn’t like Lance was unrepentant. In fact, she’d never seen her boyfriend so sorry over something. It didn’t take much to make Lance cry, but it was nigh impossible to make him apologize (and in such profusion) like he did yesterday. Ash was sure that he’d learned his lesson, his black eye was testament to that. There was no reason to make him suffer anymore than he already had; Lance had never even looked at another girl before Becky came on the scene, so it couldn’t have been all _his_ fault.

Ash sat up and looked over at her alarm clock. She couldn’t put it off any longer; it was time to get ready. She leaned over and gave Lance a small kiss before she carefully slid out of bed, then made sure that the alarm was off and wouldn’t disturb him. He was a light sleeper, and would probably be woken up anyway by the sound of her showering, but that was still better than an alarm waking him. She crept out of the bedroom and into the bathroom just across the hall.

A few minutes later, the soft sounds of water hitting acrylic stirred Lance out of slumber and into the waking world. He rubbed his face, flinching slightly when he touched his bruised eye a bit too hard. Lance shifted his weight and rolled out of bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a thud. He grabbed his phone off the bedside table and looked to see if Bozzio had ever replied to last night’s text. To his amusement, Bozzio had sent a message containing only ' **P. I. M. P.** '

Before he put his phone down, Lance had (prudently) deleted every text he had from Becky and blocked her number. Then he stumbled out of the bedroom and stepped past the bathroom door, stopping when he heard Ash softly sing a love song as she showered. If there were any nervous feelings Lance had about what Ash might say or do that morning, they had just melted away, and he grinned. He walked into the kitchen, now standing a little taller, and popped a glass of water into the microwave for cup noodles. Ash had to work today, so she wasn’t going to cook him breakfast (it was too late in the morning for her to do it, anyway, even considering what had happened the night before.

The microwave beeped and he popped the door open, grabbing the glass of boiling water with a rag and pouring it into the styrofoam cup of stiff noodles. He heard the shower stop, and covered the cup. Lance poked his head out of the kitchen and looked down the hall to see Ash, in a towel and still dripping wet, zip into the bedroom. He’d been wondering how he ought to act when the time came to speak with her that morning. While it could be seen as gauche and insensitive to talk to Ash like it was any other morning and nothing had happened, it could also serve to reassure her that their relationship hadn’t been damaged. He thought more about it, and grabbed his noodles.

When Ash emerged, now clothed, from the hall and into the living room Lance was sitting on the couch and had just set down the cup. The television wasn’t on. Ash glanced over to see him watching her, and smiled at him as she walked to the front door.

“Hey Ash,” said Lance, in a tone of voice similar to the whipped-dog persona he had affected yesterday, but more frank. He was leaning forward, holding one hand in the other.

“Hey baby,” Ash replied, putting one of Lance’s coats for her commute in the rain. Lance stood up and walked over, sidling up to her.

“You gonna go to work?” He asked, putting his hands on her hips but still looking away timidly.

“I wish I didn’t have to,” she said, softly embracing Lance in turn. Ash cradled her chin on his shoulder and he rubbed his cheek against hers.

“Please stay,” Lance whispered in her ear, and it sent a chill up her spine. She pulled away and stared deep into his pale green eyes.

“I love you, Lance,” was all she could think to say, then she gave him a light kiss and turned to go.

“Wait,” said Lance, and Ash turned back and again locked eyes with him. He paused. “ _I_ love **_you_ **.”

They stood there in silence for a few moments, staring in one another’s eyes. Lance was wracking his brain for some melancholy, ultraromantic little sentence he could spit out and make Ash feel special for being with him; but as the seconds dragged on, with the two of them standing by the door in silence, he became more and more skeptical that he could. Luckily, he saw something changing in Ash’s eyes, that they were becoming softer and more gentle. She pressed herself up against him and, laying a hand on his cheek, kissed him more passionately than before, and longer--saving the moment and Lance’s belief in his own ability as a poet. She pulled away and they smiled at eachother, then Ash left for work.

Lance stood by the window, waiting until he saw Ash briskly walking down the sidewalk to catch her bus. He did, and started to giggle with excitement. Dancing back over to the couch, giddily, he sang, “♪ _Hey, hey, hey--it’s gonna be okay!_ ♪” Then swung around and fell back onto the cushion, kicking his feet up on the coffee table in same motion and grabbing his cup noodles. Raising a fork of the stuff into his mouth with one hand, he grabbed the remote with the other and flicked on the T.V.

_I wonder what Ash is gonna bring back for dinner,_ thought Lance.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later…

Even though it had only been a few days since she’d gotten back together with Lance, Ash’s feelings of loneliness and despondency had totally vanished. Something about seeing him there whenever she came home gave her not only a feeling of security, but also self-worth. It was like she was a part of something bigger and more meaningful when she was with Lance, as opposed to weathering life all alone. For all his insensitivity, laziness and tantrum-throwing, Lance was still Ash’s rock, and she’d much rather be with him than without him.

His black eye was starting to heal up. And the rain had stopped.

Ash had gotten off of work earlier than usual that day, and was down at the theater practicing an alt-rock ballad she had written over the course of a few lonely, Lance-less nights a week earlier. While it was a sad melody, Ash was in high spirits. It was approaching evening, and her practice (which had gone very well) would soon come to a close, so she could pick up some food on the way home and see her boyfriend. They’d talked about watching a movie, like some brainless action or cliche romance that they’d riff on and joke over the way they usually did--snuggling up on the couch and laughing at each other's jokes.

Lance had yet to totally drop the scared little boy act he’d used in the café that day, but was gradually reverting back to his usual self. Every now and then he’d let one of his snarky little jokes slip out and remind Ash that the jerk she knew and loved was still bubbling under the surface.

Rosita and Gunter were the only other performers in the theater, practicing in a nearby room for some dancing competition Buster was putting on in a couple weeks. Buster, himself, was also in the theater, and greeted Ash when she’d arrived at the theater that day (though they didn’t enter into conversation). Ash found the prospect of one of them trying to have a serious talk with her about _boys_ (which was still a very real possibility) to be much more humorous, considering that none of them had any idea she’d be sharing a bed with Lance later that evening. She’d been very careful to keep her getting back with Lance a secret from everyone and, while she knew they’d inevitably find out, Ash didn’t see any reason to tell them anytime soon. They wouldn’t understand her relationship with Lance, and they wouldn’t try to understand. If she _had_ to tell one of them that she’d reunited with him, it’d probably be Meena. She generally seemed to withhold judgement about people until she’d actually met them, and she could keep a secret.

Ash’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she yanked it out to see why. Lance was calling. She slid her finger across the screen and held the phone up to her ear.

“What’s up, baby?” she asked.

“Yeah, hey babe; I called to, uh-” he began, clearly distracted by something. Ash could hear the television blaring in the background, and she immediately recognized it as professional wrestling (another one of Lance’s great passions, or at least watching it). “I called to tell you to get me a _chocolate_ milkshake when you pick up dinner, ‘cause I think I said vanilla by mistake this morning,” he said, just before some jobber got suplexed.

“No, you said chocolate,” Ash replied, smiling and leaning against the wall.

“Oh? Alright, cool…” said Lance, and then there was a pause. “So are you gonna get it for me?”

Ash laughed. “Yes, Lance. I’m going to get you your milkshake.” Lance was quiet for a while, and she could hear some commentators wailing on the T.V.

“You mean my **chocolate** milkshake, right?” he said, making Ash laugh again. Then there was a knock at the practice room door, and Rosita poked her head in. Upon seeing that Ash was on the phone, she mimed as if to say _oh!_ but stepped in anyway.

“Yeah, I’ll get it for you. I’m about to leave, so…” Ash said a little more quietly into the phone, turning slightly from Rosita.

“Okay, babe. I love you,” Lance replied.

_Oh God,_ Ash thought, afraid that Rosita might have heard him (or would hear her say it back). “ _Love you, too_ ,” Ash quickly mumbled, now turning completely away from Rosita, before ending the call. “What’s up, Rosita?”

“I hope I didn’t just interrupt a drug deal,” Rosita said jokingly (but a little serious, the way mothers do), and Ash snickered. “I was just wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight, I’m making a m-”

“No, I think I might just pick something up and go home,” said Ash, kicking open her guitar case and kneeling down to put in the instrument.

“Oh?” Rosita said, taken a little back. “Okay… Well, at least let me drive you. It’ll be dark soon.”

Ash closed the case and picked it up by the handle, turning to Rosita and looking at her the same way a trucker looks at a low clearance bridge. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

The sun had gone down, and Lance was getting hungry. He’d gotten bored with the wrestling (he preferred to rewatch old matches from the attitude era, as opposed to the new PG stuff) and was now watching one of the asinine cartoons they put on in the evening. As he heard some commotion approaching the front door, he lowered the volume and put his sensitive musician’s ear to work. Ash was coming, and she was talking to someone. Lance stood up and slinked over to the door, pressing his ear against the space between the door and jamb.

“One’s to drink, and I’m going to put the other in the fridge for later,” he heard Ash say, only because he was so familiar with her voice. He couldn’t make out what the other person said, exactly, but he could tell they were skeptical. They were rapidly approaching. Lance stepped away from the door and back to the couch, muting the T.V. so he could hear them speak at the door.

“I just really like hamburgers, Okay?” said Ash, a little exasperated and opening the door. As soon as she was through the doorway, Ash spun around and held the door close to her, blocking Rosita from entering. She hoped Rosita would just _assume_ that she’d left these lights on when she left that morning, and not that they were on because Lance had been in the apartment all day. Or that she just wouldn’t notice.

“Okay, okay,” Rosita replied, backing off, then realizing what Ash was doing. “Well, call me if you need anything, Ash. Will I see you at Buster’s party, Friday?”

“Yeah, yeah, definitely,” said Ash, then Rosita hugged her goodbye and left. Ash shut the door and locked it, then walked into the living room. “Hey, baby.”

“Who was that?” Lance asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“That was Rosita, I’ve told you about her,” answered Ash, setting down the two milkshakes and paper bag of fast food she’d been carrying on the coffee table. Lance leaned forward and reached into the bag, searching for the patty melts he’d wanted. Ash flopped down on the couch next to her boyfriend, and reached around him to grab the remote.

“Who’s Buster?” asked Lance, now actually nonchalant as his attention shifted to the food.

“He’s that koala who put on the competition, remember?” Ash answered again.

“Oh yeah, I remember him.” Lance began, unwrapping a melt and taking a bite while Ash looked for something to watch. “Doesn’t something seem... a little _funny_ about that guy?” he continued, between bites. “Or, to use a synonym for funny, a little _queer?_ ”

“Lance…” said Ash, in the lilting tone she used when Lance should shut up. Then she gave him a little shove when he started to snicker about it. “That’s not funny,” she added, trying to suppress a little grin.

“So what time are we going to this party on Friday?” he asked.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sun_Village,_California

Chapter Four

“Yeah, yeah I understand,” said Lance, in the tone of voice that indicated he pointedly _didn’t_ understand something, and Ash braced herself. “I understand that you’re ashamed of me,” he continued, a little more indignant, and Ash shook her head. They were standing by the front door, getting ready to go out. Lance had his arms crossed, waiting while Ash was knelt down and tying his red chucks’ laces. “You’re just like my dad.”

Ash sighed. There was no point trying to talk to him when he got like this. Despite his immaturity, Lance was intelligent and could usually be spoken to candidly and without much trouble; unless _he_ was the subject. In which case, he either treated it as a personal attack or one big joke. When Ash made the decision to sit him down and try to tell him why she didn’t want her friends to know she’d gotten back together with him, she had higher hopes for how he’d react.

“When are **you** gonna walk out on me, Ash?” said Lance, looking down at his increasingly irritated girlfriend.

“ _That’s enough_ , Lance,” Ash tugged on the second shoelace, finishing tying it, and stood up. “I’m not _ashamed_ of you, I just don’t think showing up together at a party--a very important fundraiser for the Theater, by the way--and _making a scene_ is the best way of telling everyone about _us_.” She wrapped her arms around Lance’s neck and huddled up to him, smiling in an attempt to appease. Lance just looked at her quietly for a couple seconds.

“So you’re not ashamed of me?” he asked, almost sincere.

“Nope,” replied Ash, pecking him on the cheek.

“So you’re ashamed of yourself for being with me,” Lance continued, snickering on the inside as Ash groaned and let go of him. He loved annoying her like that.

“Lance, this is my only day off before the party, could we please just have a nice time?” Ash asked earnestly, opening the door and looking at her boyfriend.

Lance strode up to the door and paused. Then he smiled and kissed Ash on the cheek before walking out the door. She smirked and followed, locking the door behind them.

First, they were going to see a movie at The Landmark, then swing down to Melrose Avenue; but before any of that, they’d have to catch the metro. Outside of music, Lance had no sense of time, and would usually get distracted whenever they had somewhere to be--so Ash always made sure leave earlier than was really required. And so, they were casually meandering up the sidewalk, holding hands. Ash, for a moment, was afraid someone might see them and then, ironically, was ashamed of herself for feeling that way.

It was a beautiful morning. The rising sun shone down on the streets of LA, glistening with morning dew. The sounds of birds singing collided with engines rumbling and humming, tires gliding down the street and metal grinding against metal in the distance; and it all came together in a melody ringing down the alleys and small places of the city. The early rays of sunshine glinted off of vibrant facades, assaulting the sense with a unique and urbane display of city living.

Lance was being quieter than usual. It had been a week or so and things had generally gotten back to normal between the two of them. Whenever they’d walk together he’d usually goof around and whisper little jokes in Ash’s ear about people passing by, or just spout off little bits of trivia tangentially related to their conversations; but he was just looking ahead now, sometimes peering in store windows, silently.

She’d known him for years, and intimately, but it was still hard for Ash to read Lance’s emotions, sometimes. The way he walked, looked, spoke--what he did with his hands, it all told her a little about how he felt. And she could tell he was hurting. Lance never brought up his father, even in a joke like that morning, unless he was in real emotional pain; and Lance’s pain was Ash’s.

Ash loved Lance more than anyone in the world, and she never intended to hurt him; but she had to be careful. She’d already lost one family over Lance, and didn’t want to lose another.

Then it occurred to Ash that Lance never had a family to lose.

* * *

 

The next day...

The Capra Lounge was pulsing with life, with soft pink light crashing down on the multitude of talking, laughing patrons. Walking in, one might assume it to be a higher class place than it was, with most of the crowd opting to dress in brightly colored semi-formal attire idiosyncratically accented with floral patterns and fur fringes, among other peculiarities. Upon closer inspection of the Lounge-goers, one would discover a subculture of freaks and misfits, each with their own quirks (and more severe abnormalities), gathering in the Capra Lounge for want of anywhere else to go. This (in addition to the steady supply of paying work) was why Lance loved the place.

The music being played was just as idiosyncratic and far out as the clientele.  Lance and his ragtag assemblage of musicians, who called themselves _The Ambulance_ , would play jazz fusion that he composed and transposed for the band. Rhythm and melody would crash together and split apart, with brass screaming along. Bozzio would perform astounding abuses on his drumset, at various points sounding as if he had three arms. Lance, who had one of the fastest picking hands on the west coast, sang and played a wailing, distorted lead guitar--launching off into otherworldly solos seemingly on a whim. And all of this occurred at a fantastic pace. The patrons of the Capra Lounge, the only collection of people around outlandish enough to enjoy this en masse, would enthusiastically bob their heads and jerk their bodies to the noise.

Today, one particularly small visitor to the lounge seemed especially enthralled by the music. A white mouse, grinning in a confused and enthused nirvana of head shaking and toe tapping.

The band finished up the last song of the set, and Lance glanced around the stage to see his bandmates sweaty and huffing--but at the same time overjoyed, and for a moment felt a sense of camaraderie. They loved music as much as he did. Lance waved his hand in a quick circular motion and they all relaxed, stretching before adjusting their instruments and beginning the migration backstage. Lance turned back to the audience, thanked them, and walked away himself; joining the rest of the band in the cramped back room behind the lounge’s stage. All that furnished it was a set of folding chairs around a table.

‘Well, uh, I’d love to stick around, guys--but my shift starts in thirty minutes,” said Benson, the band’s electric bassist as he quickly opened his guitar case and packed the bass inside. Everyone else sat around, watching him. “Not everyone can have a sugar mama like Lance!” he joked, picking up the case and grinning.

Lance resented that, but didn’t let it show. “Alright, Benny, we’ll see ya,” he said, crossing his arms and kicking his feet up on the table, but showing no emotion.

“Yeah, bye Benny!” Bozzio added, tinkering with a desktop vaporizer he kept in the back room. Then Benny said goodbye once more and left, while Lance’s attention shifted to the vaporizer in Bozzio’s lap. It had a long whip of tube that the ibex would puff on, and could vaporize dry herbs (in the more base of which, Bozzio was known to indulge). Lance saw him pop a green clump in the thing and set it on the table.

“That what I think it is, Bozzio?” he asked.

* * *

 

Around ten minutes after the band had stopped playing, Mike saw the front man emerge from a door next to the stage and walk to the vacant table nearest the bar. Mike’s interest was piqued for two reasons, the first being that someone so young was not only interested in jazz (or whatever bizarre, experimental permutation of it he was playing on stage) but could play it so expertly; and secondly, that he was allowed to perform in a bar while clearly being underage. So he navigated his way over to the table and climbed up to see if he could figure these things out in the most direct way.

The kid couldn’t have been more than nineteen, and was quite obviously high. Mike would never let it show, but it always disturbed him to see kids like this stoned off their asses in public--and it particularly struck a chord in him to see a guy so talented getting high in the middle of the day.

“Hey there, bud,” said Mike, like nothing was askew. “I heard you on stage. That was some pretty wild stuff, you were playin’ up there,” Mike crossed his arms, nodding his head. “I’m Mike, by the way.”

“Hey, Mike,” said Lance, sitting languid in the chair and his red eyes staring passed the mouse. “Thanks, by the- uh, about the music. It’s jazz fusion. I composed it all myself.”

_Unbelievable_ , Mike thought, _Kid’s a composer and he’s in here frying his brain_. Mike just stood there for awhile with a false grin, eyeing the porcupine up and down. He could’ve sworn he’d seen this kid before, somewhere.

“Y’know, performing’s one thing, but hangin’ around a place like this is, uh… How old are you, bud?” Mike asked, after a long pause.

“I know the owner--the… proprietor of this fine establishment, _bud_ , so don’t worry about it,” said Lance, lazily sitting up (he had never actually met Bozzio’s father, who still lived in New York). Mike just shook his head.

“Don’t you have a… family, or somethin’?” Mike asked, letting just the slightest hint of concern leak through. Lance noticed.

“I have a girlfriend,” said Lance.

“Does she know you’re stoned out of your gourd, hanging around a freakshow of a bar?” Mike asked, with more emotion.

“Hell no,” Lance began, again leaning back. “She only just took me back a few days ago.”

“Oh, really?” asked Mike, starting to assume a stance of superiority. “Why’d she leave you in the first place?”

“I, uh… fooled around with another girl,” Lance explained, with just a hint of remorse in his voice.

Mike’s opinion of the kid was rapidly deteriorating. He thought about launching off on a tirade, teaching the boy a lesson on how to treat a woman and act like a man--but he figured it was too much effort to expend on some punk he’d never see again. However, the guy did seem genuinely interesting, and Mike wasn’t averse to continuing the conversation. He thought for awhile, and eventually asked, “So, are you from around here, or…?”

“You mean Los Angeles? Well, I grew up in, uh… Do you know where Sun Village is?” asked Lance, and Mike nodded. “You do? Yeah, Sun village--it’s, uh, it’s out back of Palmdale, alright? And, uh… Well, see, Ash and I went to high school in Lancaster, which is-”

“What did you say?” asked Mike, stepping forward as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

Lance looked a little confused, then answered, “Ash, my girlfriend Ash and I went to highschool in-”

“Ash? Ash? A porcupine, plays guitar too loud?” Mike seemed to get more incredulous with every word. “What did you say your name was?”

“Lance,” he answered. Mike was quiet for a little while, staring a hole through Lance like he couldn’t believe it.

“What?!” yelled Mike, and Lance was taken aback. Mike opened his mouth to yell again, but was silent, and stared a little while longer in disbelief. Then he closed his mouth and straightened up, stepping closer to Lance. “You listen to me, boy. I don’t know how or why she could ever take **you** back, but if you ever make that little girl cry again, I’m going to-”

“ ** _Boy?!_ ** ” interrupted Lance, sitting back up. “Who the **_fuck_ ** do you think you are-”

“ **I’m the guy who’s gonna kick your ass up and down the street if you don’t straighten up, you little pissant,** ” yelled Mike, with surprising intensity from such a small creature.

Lance stood up in a flash, knocking his chair down in the process and screaming, “ **I don’t have to take this!** ” before turning to go. Fuming, he marched toward the back room's door to grab his guitar and slip out the back. “Excuse me for bein’ fucking born!” he yelled, with most people in the crowd stepping aside for him and shoving the rest. Mike took off his trilby and ran his fingers through his hair before putting the hat back on. Then he turned to go, himself. He didn’t know much about the Lounge, but he assumed they’d stick up for Lance before they’d try and see things his way.

* * *

 

Later, that night…

“Yeah… Yeah… _I know_ … Okay…” Ash would say intermittently into her phone and glare at Lance, who was sitting nervously on the couch pretending to watch the muted television. Mike’s girlfriend was on the other end. The cat was out of the bag, and she had picked up Mike’s phone when Ash called for the third time to beg him not to tell the rest of the Theater group, so she could do it on her own terms. She had gotten his number from Buster, who she’d called just minutes before and didn’t seem to have heard anything, yet. Now Mike’s girlfriend was taking the opportunity to pass down some womanly advice to the teenager, talking about second chances and having patience, along with some anecdotal generalizations about men and their antics.

“Yeah… _Yeah_...“ Ash stepped out from the kitchen doorway and toward Lance on the couch when some different sounding buzzes came through the phone. “Has he told anyone yet?” Ash asked, much more animated than she had been. More vacillating buzzes came through, and Ash looked relieved--but only for a moment. “Okay?” She paused. “Okay… Alright… Thanks. Yeah, I’ll see you there. Okay. Thanks. Bye,” Ash ended the call and tossed the phone on the coffee table, sitting on the couch and putting her head in her hands.

“Everything alright, babe?” asked Lance, nervously. He couldn’t take the suspense; he wasn’t sure, but he was afraid Ash might’ve found out that he got high.

“I hope you’re happy,” said Ash, looking over at Lance. “You’re coming to the party with me,” she put her head back in her hands.

“What?” asked Lance, and Ash sat up and glared at him.

“Mike says that if _I_ don’t tell everyone about us, _he’s_ going to,” she said coolly.

“Who’s Mike, again?” asked Lance, and Ash rolled her eyes.

“The guy you screamed at in **the bar** today! Y’know? The place where you were getting **_high?_** " she replied, more intensely.

Lance was horrified. “ _Oh God_ -”

“Hold on, Lance,” Ash interrupted. “Before we get to you _getting stoned_ maybe you want to tell me what you were doing in a bar-”

Lance stood up. “My friends were there, they made--That’s, that’s why I was high! They made me do it, babe! It was peer pressure, I swear! I just wanted to be cool-”

“Oh _, don’t even,_ Lance!” Ash stood up herself, crossing her arms and turning away. Even this, he wouldn’t take seriously. “It’s bad enough that everyone’s going hear about this, and now you’re lying to my face about what even happened-” her voice broke at the end of the sentence, and Lance got concerned.

“I just know that they won’t understand,” Ash shook her head. They won’t understand _us_ or… you… They won’t… A-and, Lance, I love you, but-”

“ _Babe_ …” Lance lightly put a hand on Ash’s shoulder, but she jerked away. It usually took a couple _hours_ of fighting for her to get this emotional, so this must’ve been pretty important to her.

“Stop…” she said, and turned back to Lance but didn’t look at him. “I… I just…” she put one hand over her eyes. “I don’t want to have to pick between you and my family, _again…_ Because… I love you, Lance, _more than anything_ , b-but…”

“ _Ashley…_ ” Lance slowly took Ash’s hands in his own and pulled them down, looking in her dewy blue eyes and pulling her into an embrace. “ _I’m sorry. I know what I did was wrong, and I promise I’m going to make it up to you. Okay? And you aren’t going to have to choose between me and anybody, because all I want is for you to be happy_ ,” Ash put her arms around Lance and rested her head against him, surrendering to the embrace, and they started to sway back and forth. “ _So don’t worry about anything, baby; because I’m going to make your friends love me as much as you do_ ,” said Lance, sincerely, his voice getting softer. Ash closed her eyes, and they were quiet for a while, slow dancing in the middle of the living room.

“ _I love you, Lance,”_ whispered Ash.

_“I love you too, Ash,”_ Lance whispered back, and they kept swaying. Then, he began to quietly sing, “ _Hey, hey, hey-”_

_“It’s gonna be okay,”_ Ash sang in turn, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to explore a lot more in this chapter, and I feel like I've messed up the pacing; but I didn't want to leave anyone waiting. I also wanted to have Lance and Ash interact more in this chapter and see their relationship in action, like on their little day out, but I didn't feel like it fit the pacing of the story, so I'll just have to look into it further down the line.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter today, the first of two halves.

Chapter Five

Lance was sprawled out limp on the couch, watching some hidden camera show on the television and playing _No Woman, No Cry_ in the background, but not really paying attention to either. He held a rolled up comic book in one hand and his phone in the other; Bozzio had called from the Lounge for the sole purpose of making pointless argument with him. For some unknown reason, everyone he had considered a friend found it endlessly entertaining to wind Lance up and upset him to the point he started screaming, and as soon as Bozzio called he could tell this was just such a situation. The rest of the band was snickering in the back, confirming these suspicions.

Normally Lance would become incensed at the mere notion they’d all decided to call and upset him for their own amusement, but he was especially bored that evening. Ash, despite his expertly executed romance the night before, was still angry over finding out that he’d gotten high at the Lounge, and gave him an earful when they woke up that morning; talking about how ‘there are going to be some big changes’ the way she always did when she got mad at him. She never meant it though; she just said those things because she knew it upset Lance (who hated change). Now she was spending the evening eating dinner with Rosita’s family, leaving Lance enough money for a pizza.

When Lance was brave or angry enough to call Ash out and enquire as to what the ‘changes’ would entail, she’d begin with the biggest offences (the ones that kicked off the fight) and then gradually list off smaller, petty grievances. His quickdraw insults, macabre and perverse sense of humor, and casual swearing were usually the first on the chopping block; but she never really blamed him for these quirks, so she never made any real effort to make him change them.

Lance’s parents were poor rednecks from the deep south who came to California when Lance’s father (also a musician) thought he could be a musical sensation through the blending of surf rock melodies and wild vocals with the rhythm of his native delta blues. By all accounts (mainly Lance’s long-suffering mother’s) he was a violent and disturbed man. By the time Ash had met Lance, his father was long gone, but she could tell that he had an indelible effect on her boyfriend’s young psyche, for however long he was around.

“She _thinks_ I’m gonna tip the pizza guy, but she’s wrong,” he said, unraveling the comic book to flip through it. It was some dreadful pulp magazine in the vein of _Weird Tales_ that he’d picked up in some comic book store near Santa Monica the other day.

“Yeah, that extra four bucks will really make a difference in your Roth IRA, Lance,” Bozzio buzzed from the other end of the line.

“Shut the fuck up, Bozzio,” Lance replied calmly, cradling the phone in his neck and scanning a few paragraphs of _The Medusa of Madison Avenue._ “And I think you mean _three_ dollars.”

“What’d you get on it?” asked Bozzio, as if he were actually interested.

“Ash isn’t going to have any, so I got one with anchovies,” answered Lance, getting distracted by the magazine.

Only silence from Bozzio’s end for a couple seconds, then he said, “God, Lance--cheap _and_ disgusting. Ash is one lucky lady-”

“You know what, Bozzio?” Lance flipped through another page, and could sense their anticipation. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. “You can talk about me, but don’t talk about my pizza toppings.” There was a knock at the door. “I’ve gotta go, Bozzio--pizza’s here,” and he slid a finger over the phone, tossing the magazine on the coffee table. Lurching off the couch and snapping up the pizza money in single motion, Lance trotted over to front door and swung it open--laughing as soon as he saw the delivery boy.

“Ayyy! Nice leather jacket, _Donkey Kong._ I’ve got a jukebox in here, maybe you and Ron Howard could take a look at it?” Lance chuckled derisively at the confused delivery boy (who was strangely not holding any food). Lance caught on, and stopped laughing. “Where’s my pizza, Magilla?” he asked impatiently, the humor leaving his voice immediately.

The gorilla at the door was obviously intimidated, and timidly stammered, “I’m, uh… I don’t have a pizza, or anything like that. I’m just, uh-” in a cockney accent.

“Then why the fuck are you here?” Lance asked aggressively, noticing the ape’s gentle, timorous nature.

“I--uh, I thought a friend of mine, I mean, I thought this was her address, but-” he started, afraid of offending Lance any further. “Do you know a porcupine named Ash?” he asked, and saw that it clearly had an effect on Lance.

“Who’s asking?” asked Lance, less aggressive but more sinister.

“I-I’m… She’s a friend of mine, I know her from a show we did at the, um, the Moon Theater. It was on the news,” he answered.

_Uh-oh_ , Lance thought, _Ash is gonna put my ass in a sling,_ and his demeanor changed in an instant. “Why didn’t you say so? Yeah, I know her. Here, come on in,” Lance stepped to one side and flicked his head, inviting the kid inside.

“Oh, uh, alright--thanks,” said the gorilla, walking in the apartment before Lance closed the door. “My name’s Johnny, by the way,” Johnny said, looking at Lance as if to ask _his_ name, but Lance was silent.

“Sorry about treating you that way at the door and, uh… using those _speciest epithets_ but, y’know, Ash lives here and, uh…” Lance had no idea how he was going to finish this sentence when he started it, and he also wasn’t sorry. “She’s a girl and, well… you know,” he said, hopping back up on the couch and turning down the volume on the T.V. (but leaving the record on).

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Johnny didn’t get it, but he’d gotten used to this kind of jock talk around his dad’s friends. “So, are you her boyfriend, or…?” he asked, sitting politely on the couch.

“Yeah, sure am. I mean, I’m lucky enough to be,” Lance said. Johnny wasn’t so hard to read, but he was used to dealing with more volatile personalities. “I haven’t always been as good to her as I should’ve been, but… Uh… I love her,” he stammered, looking for a position from which he could tell Johnny exactly who he was without alienating another one of Ash’s friends. Surely Johnny should have at least started to catch on, but he was just giving Lance a sidelong stare, smirking and nodding his head at the mention of love. Maybe he hadn’t even heard of their break-up? Or maybe he was playing his hand close to the chest. Then, as they sat there in an awkward tension, Johnny’s expression shifted, and he looked over a little surprised.

“A-are you… Are you Lance?” Johnny asked, eyebrows raised.

Lance smirked and said, “In the flesh.”

“So… So Ash and you… The two of you are back together?” he asked, more inquisitive than incredulous. Lance was silent, staring at Johnny with a little grin as if to say _‘Took you long enough._ ’ Johnny looked up and away, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. “Well, I guess that’s none of my business.”

There was a charged silence, with hushed commercials emanating from the television and the saccharine island sounds of _Bob Marley and The Wailers_ being the only noise in the apartment. “So, why’d you come here anyway, John?” asked Lance, thrashing the tension.

Johnny fidgeted a little in his seat, mulling something over in his mind, then said, “I like this music you’re playing. Reggae, innit?” avoiding the question and annoying Lance (but he didn’t show it).

“Actually, in this tempo, it would technically be closer to rocksteady,” said Lance. Johnny only nodded his head in deference.

“So, uh… You know a lot about music?” Johnny asked, if only to stave off the awkward pauses. Years of being forced into conversation with his father’s friends had given him plenty of experience in making small talk with undesirables like Lance, but it was still an effort.

“Yeah…” Lance nodded his head, not forgetting that Johnny was avoiding the question on the floor (namely, why he was there in the first place). “Among other things…”

“Like… uh…” Johnny began, again fidgeting as if he were debating with himself.

_‘Like, uh’--_ ** _’like, uh’ what, Koko?!_** thought Lance, getting angry but being very careful not to let it show. He couldn’t stand these soft spoken types, or at least when they wouldn’t submit to him. But, if it was for Ash, he was willing to put up with it (for a little while).

“Like, about girls?” Johnny asked earnestly. He wasn’t sure how smart it was to ask Lance about the fairer sex, seeing as how he barely knew him (and what he did know about him wasn’t good), but the date of the fundraiser was fast approaching. Women always seemed more attracted to jerks like Lance, anyway--that was Johnny’s experience, at least, so what harm could there be in just _listening_ to what Lance had to say? He did get Ash to take him back, after all.

Lance was trying hard to keep a straight face. If you asked anyone familiar with him, you’d hear something different--but Lance didn’t consider himself prone to mood swings; as far as he was concerned, when you go from howling in anger (on the inside) to containing hysterical laughter, that’s just an interesting afternoon. “Y-yeah, bud. I know _all about_ the ladies,” he said, his lips curling up at a confused Johnny. “You just listen to Papa Lance, baby boy. He’ll make you a real Don Juan in no time.”

* * *

 

In a scene that might, in a less happy porcupine, trigger an existential crisis, Ash was sitting at the table as Rosita washed dishes after dinner. They had been joking around about what Buster and Eddie might get up to at the fundraiser when Rosita suggested Ash might think about bringing someone to the party, herself. Ash, who’d come to dinner with the express intent of revealing her romantic situation to Rosita, was desperately trying to think of a way to ease her into it.

Ash figured that, if there was no avoiding making a scene at the fundraiser (and knowing Lance, there _was_ going to be a scene) then she might as well tell who she could before the big night, and maybe even get a few people on her side. Buster was a wild card, she had no idea how he might take it, but she had a feeling he could go off the deep end. Meena would probably be on her side, no matter what, even if it was only to keep a fight from breaking out. Meena’s family, however, was very protective of Ash; but she couldn’t even begin to formulate a plan for telling them, considering she only ever interacted with them as a group.

Rosita and Norm were the safest bets, and the easiest to tell (Ash had assumed). She only had to tell Rosita, anyway, and Norman would find out from her later.

“Well, actually, I already have someone I’m gonna bring,” said Ash, her tone shifting from the earlier joking.

“Ooh, give me all the details!” Rosita finished scraping the last plate and set it in some dishwater. “What’s his name?” she asked, just as Ash was about to reply. Then she wiped her hands on her apron and turned around, leaning against the counter. She could tell from Ash’s face that something was amiss, and her own expression shifted.

“What’s whose name?” asked Norm, striding into the kitchen and toward the fridge.

Ash found her situation a bit more dire than she’d previously imagined. “Well, um… I was actually thinking of bringing Lance.”

Norman yanked his head out of the fridge and threw a befuddled look at Ash, with Rosita shaking her head in disbelief.

* * *

 

“I get it, yeah. I know what it’s like, Little John. My step dad wanted me to drive his bread truck,” said Lance, then he took a bite of the pizza slice he was holding. It’d taken a little while, but he’d gradually worn Johnny down and gotten in his head. It had taken a delicately assembled ballet of nuanced conversation, brotherly jabs and urbane joking, but Lance had finally put Johnny in a place where he could influence him.

The young gorilla, who was usually very guarded when it came to the details of his personal life, found himself being much more open with Lance, and after only a couple hours of conversation. He couldn’t explain it, but the porcupine had a haunting charisma, an animal magnetism that made Johnny want to be his friend. They had been talking about Johnny’s father, childhood, hopes and aspirations; all the most personal aspects of Johnny’s life. It was as if Lance were looking for something--and he only ever confessed enough about _his_ life to make Johnny feel comfortable with talking about his own.

“But you can’t always listen to your parents,” Lance continued. “They say that they only want what’s best for you, but… I can’t remember how many times I got kicked out of the house. Which, y’know, just makes it that much more painful when Ash does it to me…” said Lance, plastering a pensive look on his face and feigning emotion. Johnny gobbled it up.

“Aw, c’mon mate. Ash _loves_ you. So what if she makes a few mistakes? And, like you said, _they all_ get a little bit too emotional sometimes,” said Johnny, leaning forward, and Lance smirked.

“Thanks, Johnny,” he replied, then sipped on a can of soda. “Well, the little lady will be gettin’ home soon.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny, standing up. He’d forgotten that Ash was who he’d come to speak with, under the illusion that he was Lance’s friend first. “Well, I’ll see you at the party, yeah?”

“You know it,” said Lance, standing up and walking with Johnny over to the door, pizza slice in hand. “Remember what we talked about, Lothario, and the girls won’t be able to resist you, alright? And don’t forget, no one needs to hear about _Ash and I_ ,” the porcupine opened the door, and Johnny stepped out.

“Sure thing, Lance. I’ll see ya,” he said, smiling and giving a little wave before starting toward his car.

“You betcha, John-boy!” Lance closed the door and took a bite of his pizza, muttering, “You stupid kong,” as he sauntered back to the couch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, the second part of chapter five.

Chapter Six

The vague and variegated lights of the city streets sped passed the car and danced on Ash’s eyes as Rosita’s castigations rang in her ears. It was worse, at first, but now that they were on the road (and she’d realized that nothing she could say would change Ash’s mind) Rosita’s motherly scolding had devolved into telling personal and second-hand anecdotes about bad relationships, along with the occasional warning. Ash was doing her best to tune it out, with arms crossed and a detached look, but it was difficult. Whenever Rosita reached a salient point in one of her little stories that actually made Ash think of her _own_ boyfriend, she’d get agitated and construct an argument in her mind for Lance being a misunderstood genius--but never actually put it forward. It all reminded Ash too much of her real mother’s scathing admonitions.

At least when it was all said and done, Ash had her own place to go and lick her wounds (after one of her mother’s dressing-downs, Ash would lock herself in her bedroom and feel anxious for the rest of the night). The irony of it was that the light at the end of this emotionally turbulent tunnel was the root of the trouble itself: Lance. While her boyfriend had the emotional intelligence of a child, he was a very good listener and could be extremely profound when the mood struck him, so it made Ash feel better to talk with Lance at the end of a bad day. It had always been this way, even when they were in high school: whenever Ash’s parents reprimanded her for being with Lance, the first thing she’d do after was call him and vent. And he’d never complain. Lance, as it occurred to Ash, was always much more sensitive than any of the other boys, even if he didn’t show it. That was one of the first things that attracted her to him.

“And it happens to so many girls, and it just changes everything,” Rosita had come back into tune, and sounded like this was an especially important topic, so Ash starting paying attention (even if she didn’t look like it). “And you never think it will happen to you until it does, and… I know that you two live together, so I know that… Ash, are you _safe_?” she asked, and Ash suddenly looked very offended.

“He’s not going to **_hit_ ** me, Rosita! He isn’t like that,” Ash had to speak up, she couldn’t help herself.

“What? No, I mean…” Rosita began, looking over at Ash then back at the road. “I was asking if you and Lance… do you use _protection-_ ”

“Oh, God! Will you just stop?” Ash’s hands shot up, instinctively reaching to cover her ears at the word ‘protection’ but she stopped them half way and crossed her arms, looking out the passenger-side window. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

Rosita looked shocked, and a little hurt. “You _are_ my business, Ashley-”

“You aren’t my mom, Rosita! So quit acting like it,” said Ash, and upon seeing how much it had hurt Rosita, immediately regretted it. But she didn’t apologize. She only looked ahead, silently, arms still crossed and with an unhappy expression. Rosita was also quiet, keeping her eyes on the road and a heartbroken look on her face. They both wished the radio was on, but neither reached for it.

For the first few minutes after the little outburst, fears flashed across Ash’s mind that it was happening again--that she was going to have to lose Rosita to keep Lance, and she felt a lump forming in her throat. But this all gradually subsided when she realized that Rosita really _wasn’t_ her mother, that she was much more understanding and loving than her mother. It also occurred to Ash that she herself wasn’t the same person she once was, that she had matured and was more willing to apologize (which she intended to do, but not tonight). After awhile, she convinced herself that everything would be alright, but then she cast a subtle glance at Rosita and could tell, intuitively, how badly she was hurting emotionally--and this sent the panicked fears flooding back.

Rosita had said some upsetting things herself, once Ash had broken the news, but softened her tone after Norm (who could be more tactful in conversation than he let on) scornfully suggested that, if Ash was going to set such a bad example to the girls by going back to a man that treated her poorly, perhaps she shouldn’t come to dinner anymore. Ash considered herself a good enough person, but never saw herself as a role-model--so this not only hurt her, but also took her by surprise when it did. For a moment, she thought about her little sister, to whom she could no longer speak, but quickly banished this thought and the pain that came with it. She didn’t want to break down in front of Rosita.

In the end, Ash couldn’t blame herself for yelling at Rosita. She was only defending Lance, or thought she was, at least. Since the very first day she’d met him, Ash had to defend Lance. And herself for loving him. She knew, or a part of her knew, that this was just a justification for yelling at someone who cared about her, but it was better than shouldering the guilt (right now).

She hoped he wouldn’t be too upset with her for talking to him the way she did that morning; Ash needed Lance, tonight.

* * *

 

Lance was sat on the couch, banging on an empty coffee can he’d flipped over and set in his lap like it was a bongo, occasionally wailing, _“Mister Mojo risin’!”_ and comparing various models of Gibson Les Paul on Ash’s laptop. He’d always wanted one of the mythical guitars since he’d first started playing, and was saving up for a wine red custom. He only had a couple thousand dollars in the bank, and regularly put dents in the fund whenever he couldn’t convince Ash to buy him something he wanted, but with every gig he came a little bit closer to his custom Les Paul. Every so often he’d wonder if a little bit of his savings couldn’t be put to better use taking Ash out on a real date, but it was becoming readily apparent that she’d stay with him no matter what.

Ash came from a working class family herself, but Lance’s household was totally impoverished, and he had a deprived upbringing (even as a single child). Ash never let it slip, but Lance could tell whenever she came over to his house that she pitied him. As far as he could figure, even after they moved in together and started ‘pooling’ their finances, Ash still considered him poorer than herself; so she was willing to put up all the money for rent and pay for the things Lance wanted.

Lance stopped slamming his hands on the coffee can when he heard the front door’s lock clang open. He flipped the can over and set it on the floor, and Ash walked in. Lance could tell immediately that she was upset, and reached for the remote to turn off the television. She had her arms wrapped around her torso, cold (or feigning to be), and walked over to him without a word.

“What’s wrong, Ash?” asked Lance, nestling himself in a corner of the couch when Ash crawled up and sat next to him.

“Hold me,” said Ash, cuddling up to her boyfriend, and he complied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Lance was an altar boy until they caught him stealing from the children's fund.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Lance’s eyes fluttered open, and he squinted at the early morning light cascading into the room. He could hear Ash on her phone in the living room or kitchen, and confusedly heaved himself up into a sitting position, as his mind grinded from sleep to consciousness. Ash would normally have been off to work around that time (and she would’ve woken him up before she left); but then it struck him that it was Ash’s day off, which also meant that today was the day. The day of the fundraiser.

Lance, ever the stoic, was secretly dreading being paraded around that theater (or wherever this was taking place) like Il Duce at the end of the war. He abhorred meeting new people, and especially under pre-contrived contexts and pretenses. The only reason he didn’t hate going up on stage to perform was because he was in control of the situation--but at this party, or fundraiser or whatever, he would have to play it totally flywheel loose, without a safety net. While he considered himself a great student of laconicism, Lance felt the worst part of it was that he couldn’t even complain to Ash about it, considering she was even more nervous over the party than he. But she could tell he wasn’t looking forward to it.

The porcupine fell back onto his side, looking at Ash’s empty side of the bed. When it came to situations like this, when it all came down to his ability to react in a social situation, Lance would reconnoiter and gather as much information he could. He’d been surreptitiously needling his girlfriend for details about the big night since he found out he’d have to go. Knowing him so well, she caught on to what he was doing and tried her best to make him feel more comfortable with going to the party, but had limited information about it herself.

From what Lance could gather, the little soiree would revolve around a group of affluent appreciators of the fine arts brought in to see if they’d want to help fund any number of shows and functions that the theater would be putting on. The entire thing was organized by someone named ‘Nana Noodleman’ (who, as far as Lance could judge by the name, was either a Jewish grandmother or a twentieth century Dadaist). So as not to make appear to be the tactless exhibition in cash-grabbing that it was, the higher ups of the theater were trying to build it up into a big event, with everyone even marginally involved in the theater coming dressed up to chat with the would-be benefactors.

According to what Ash had vented to him last night (and hinted toward during the days preceding), most of the people at the party wouldn’t be terribly happy that he’d show up. But this didn’t bother him, too much; most of Lance’s life was showing up at places where no one wanted him. The majority of people who felt this way were the ones Ash had gotten close to around the time of the concert, and not the assortment of benefactors Nana was bringing in (who had, probably, little to no interaction with the theater group). This presented to Lance a dichotomy which he could exploit to his advantage. Nana’s high rollers were in the position of power--and it was Buster and his friends’ responsibility to please them if the Moon Theater were to prosper. If no one (or only a few people) knew he was coming to the party, Lance could ingratiate himself with these wealthy individuals before anyone had caught on he was even there, then he could factionalize them against the others. If this succeeded, the paradigm would be turned on it’s head, and it would be the theater Ash’s friends job to placate Lance and his new rich allies--as opposed to Lance having to grovel before Buster and his group.

Of course, in all probability, this would only make Ash’s friends dislike him more once they realized what he as doing ( _if_ they realized; Lance wasn’t yet entirely convinced these were the brightest people). There was always the slim chance they might take a shine to him if he used his superb powers of manipulation to convince Nana’s people to help out the theater, but his duplicity would probably override that in their minds. If he had any hope of keeping Ash happy, he’d have to make her friends like him (like he promised he would), but that could be done any time after the party, when they weren’t all in one big group. But right now, his only thoughts were on surviving the day.

After tossing the rudiments of his plan around in his head a few more times, Lance forced himself out of bed and slipped on his rank tee shirt. He walked out of the bedroom and into the living room, greeted by the smell of Ash cooking and the sound of her still on the phone. He hopped up onto the couch and fished the remote out from between two cushions.

“Ash, get me a pepsi,” he called toward the kitchen, flicking on the television and immediately changing the channel to cartoons. A few seconds later Ash appeared next to him, handing him a soda and rubbing his shoulder. He silently mouths ‘Thanks, baby,’ and pops it open while someone on the other end of Ash’s call mutters diffidently.

“I don’t know, Meena. It doesn’t sound anything like him, to do that,” Ash replied, walking back to the kitchen. “No, I haven’t spoken to Johnny in days,” she said, after a short pause, and Lance’s ears pricked up. “Are you sure he knows that you just want to go with him to this thing as a friend?” Ash was getting progressively quieter as she walked out of earshot. “That is why you want to go with him, right?” was the last thing Lance could make out before her voice was ultimately taken over by the sizzling of eggs and blaring of the television. His attention quickly shifted back to the cartoon and his own thoughts.

There were no foreseeable obstacles to his plans for the evening. Lance knew that it was easy for people to hate him; while he was famous among his classmates for his juvenile antics, he was one of the most despised people in his high school. Whatever trait of his that led to this revilement (he knew he was disliked, he just never understood why) seemed to have followed him into his life as a young adult. But he could be very charming when we tried, and older people seemed to enjoy his company much more than his peers; so there was a good chance he could win over Nana’s people (assuming they were older, and he did).

The biggest issues would arise later, and were totally unknowable. Lance’s actions at the fundraiser could generate any number of reactions among Ash and her ‘new family’ and each individual person’s reaction would be altered by someone else’s and this, theoretically, would snowball into such a number of contingencies that it would be deterministically impossible for Lance to plan for each and every one. Not to mention that Ash was the only person Lance actually _knew_ in this scenario.

For a fraction of a second, Lance felt like he was having a panic attack and wanted to break down in tears, but these sensations vanished as quickly as they appeared.

“Breakfast, baby,” chimed Ash, swaying into the living room with two plates of assorted morning comestibles, all piping hot. Lance put down his soda and grabbed his plate, cutlery and all, and waited while Ash carefully climbed up next to him on the couch. “When are you going to take your shower, sweetness?” she asked, slicing into a miniature link of breakfast sausage with the side of her fork. Lance had already started wolfing down his own meal.

“It’s supposed to rain tonight, isn’t it?” Lance replied, wiping dripping egg yolk from his mouth.

“ _Ha ha,_ Lance. Maybe you should give up music and go into comedy,” said Ash sardonically, but playful.

“Yeah, I could be Louie Anderson’s side kick,” Lance scratched his neck, and Ash smirked. She knew what he’d ask next. “Why isn’t _Life with Louie_ syndicated anymore?” he asked, and Ash’s smirk graduated to an amused smile. Besides music, Lance entertained any number of obsessions (most of them bizarre and some bordering on the unhealthy) and the rotund eighties comedian Louie Anderson was one of them.

“Because it’s over twenty years old, Lance--and _you_ aren’t even twenty,” Ash interjected. It was a rhetorical question, but she always took the opportunity to tease, or provoke, her boyfriend. “And Louie Anderson is, like, eighty years old-”

“He’s not _eighty!_ He sixty-three, and you know it,” Lance shoved a forkful of sausage in his mouth, feigning anger at his giggling girlfriend. He swallowed hard and gave the nasally squeal that signaled he was about to do his Louie impression, “ _Ughnnn! Don’t laugh at me!”_

“Wh-why Lou-” Ash laughed. “Why Louie Anderson? There are a hundred more contemporary comedians who you could obsess over, but you choose this sixty-year-old, overweight-”

_“Ughnnn!”_ Lance squealed.

“I-is it, is-” Ash began, giggling a little more intensely.

_“Ughnnn!”_ Lance squealed harder, then broke into suppressed chuckling at his own absurdity. Ash was laughing too hard to enquire any further. After a couple minutes of residual chuckling and Lance’s short, aberrant Louie squeals they were nearly finished eating breakfast.

“What are you going to wear to the party, baby?” asked Ash, noting a slight change in Lance’s demeanor at the question.

“Well, it’s going to be a kind of, uh, upscale deal, right? I’ll just wear what I always do,” he answered, picking through the remnants of his meal. He was referring to a set of clothes he kept for semi-formal occasions, which satisfied the fundamental requirements of the dress code while still making him look like a freak who just came out from under a bridge. It consisted of a white short sleeve dress shirt, black trousers, a red tartan necktie and a pair of python boots that belonged to his father.

“Oh no, baby--come on. This is an important night for the theater, and that stuff looks horrible,” Ash adored Lance’s eccentricities, and by extension his eccentric sense of style, but this wasn’t the first time she’d made this argument. “It makes you look like a deranged NASA technician, who got fired and came back to shoot up Cape Canaveral.”

“Why did I get fired?” asked Lance, trying to avoid the point Ash was making.

“Baby,” she began. “We can just pop in my store at the mall and get you a pair of dress shoes-”

“I don’t wanna,” Lance interjected. “My boots have soul, they _mean_ something.”

Ash took Lance’s plate and stacked it on top of her own, then set them on the coffee table. “Lance, they look like… If David Bowie were a cowboy-”

“What are _you_ wearing?” he asked, leaning back and crossing his arms.

Ash crossed her own arms, saying, “This isn’t about me-”

“Well, I’d rather look like a NASA cowboy than be a poseur,” said Lance, holier-than-thou and with eyes closed.

Coming from anyone else, Ash would’ve taken that as the gravest of all insults, but she couldn’t help but smile at her boyfriend and his studied obliviousness to his own absurdity. She gave him a playful shove and then carried their plates to the kitchen.

* * *

 

After breakfast came a little amorous petting on the couch, then the scene gradually shifted to Ash sitting on the floor and performing her daily guitar practice while Lance shirked his, preferring to lay prone and silently lament the encroaching fundraiser.

Ash had seen Lance like this multiple times, in one of his miniature depressions. He’d usually go into one of these little funks before trips to places like the dentist’s office, or after a bad experience on-stage (owing to too many ‘philistines’ in the audience, as Lance put it). She knew he’d hate the party, even before she told him he’d have to go. It seemed to Ash that Lance had a preternatural ability to influence people and could make anyone his friend, but he considered himself to be totally socially inept, and hated personal interaction. Whenever she asked him why, he always described a nebulous, far-away feeling of not being allowed to be himself around other people. Ash was, in his words, the only person with whom Lance _could_ be himself; this being the reason he loved her.

After years of knowing him, loving him, and sharing his pain, Ash eventually came to the conclusion that, while Lance may have been an unambitious work-shy degenerate, all he really wanted from life was to be understood. All his extensive knowledge of music, poetry, philosophy and the like was amassed in an ever-present attempt to achieve this end, or at least that’s how it appeared to Ash.

Reflecting on this, and seeing him lying catatonic on the couch with his childish thousand-yard stare, Ash could understand how easy it must’ve been for Becky to lead Lance astray; especially considering how little attention Ash herself had been paying him in the time leading up to the incident. All it really took for Lance to be happy was to have someone willing to entertain all the outlandish notions that ran through his head, and when he doesn’t have that naturally he’ll go off looking for someone who will give it to him (but never really expecting to find them). So, when someone like Becky comes on the scene and even _pretends_ to understand him, of course he’d fall head-over-heels for her.

Ash wondered how Lance must’ve felt about the situation concerning her friends and their opinion of him, and what would happen at the party. It must be harrowing for him, she thought, to be forced to acknowledge all these people who disliked him so much, and know that he’d have to act like someone else to even have a chance at getting on their good side. She hadn’t seen him compose, or draw, or write any poetry--really, she hadn’t seen him try to express himself in any way since they’d gotten back together, and that was a bad sign.

_Maybe I could do something for him… To make up for it,_ She thought. While it always gave Ash some degree of comfort to talk to Lance about her problems, she also found it very cathartic to think about him and his issues. It gave her perspective on her own life. Everything she’d been through with Rosita the day before seemed so distant now, and silly to worry over, but Rosita’s comments about birth control still lingered in her mind.

Ash had to be the responsible one in the relationship when it came to birth control. To Lance, sex was nothing more than a stress reliever, or maybe a more extreme form of cuddling. The idea that life could be produced from the act disturbed him, so he removed it from his conscious mind altogether. This extended to subjects like pregnancy and childbirth, which unsettled him and he refused to ever recognize in conversation.

From what Ash could gather, this unhealthy rejection of the fundamental aspects of motherhood (or maybe parenthood altogether) arose from a sad turn of events in his childhood. Details were scarce since he seldom spoke about it, but Ash had pieced it together over the years.

Lance was an only child, but if asked he would say that, at one time, he had a little brother. This is because, around the time he was eleven or twelve, his mother got pregnant (whether or not it was a boy was anyone’s guess). Lance alluded several times to this being the event that precipitated his father abandoning them, but never gave a straight answer. Probably due to this, Lance’s mother made the decision to abort the pregnancy, a bit late into it, which had a profound effect on Lance’s young psyche. He wasn’t willing to speak about anything concerning abortion, becoming visually perturbed if pushed. Whenever Ash was watching the news with Lance in the room and the subject of abortion came up, she’d have to change the channel. If one were to look through Lance’s poems and drawings, a small amount of his work would be devoted to the imagery of wombs and fetuses--and in his more experimental arrangements, percussion and bass would sometimes be made to resemble a mother’s heartbeat. Many times Ash had thought to try and talk these things through with him, and help him understand his own feelings about it, but she could never find the words.

“Hey, baby?” said Ash, getting his attention. “It’s getting to be that time,”

“Yeah,” he answered, not showing any real emotion.

“Wanna take your shower, now?” she asked, sweetly, and Lance dragged himself to his feet and sauntered toward the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baskets is one of Lance's favorite shows.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

“You’ve always hated my python boots!” said Lance, slumped back on the couch and languid as Ash tied the laces of his solid black high tops.

“I feel like you’re expecting me to disagree,” she replied, looking up at him and tugging the laces of the first shoe before moving on to the next.

Lance huffed and looked away. “These aren’t dress shoes, Ash…” he said, then paused. “I’m going to look like an idiot!”

“Yeah,” Ash yanked the second set of laces into a bow, then grabbed both of his feet and bumped them together twice, like he was a toddler. With a sardonic grin, she continued, “But if I let you show up wearing white snakeskin boots, we’d _both_ look like idiots.” Ash stood up, smirking as she walked over to the window facing the street. “If you hadn’t fought me on it for so long, we _might_ have been able to get you a pair of dress shoes,” she said condescendingly to her increasingly frustrated boyfriend.

Lance just sat there quietly for awhile, then said, with total sincerity, “I’m about to throw a fit, Ash.”

“Good,” she moved the blinds and looked down at the street. “Get it out of your system before the party,” she finished, and looked back at him, smiling. He was half-way between leaning back and sitting up, eyes wide and lips slightly pursed like he couldn’t believe it.

“Fascist!” burst Lance, in a distinctly Californian accent, and there was a pregnant pause.

“Oh, baby,” Ash crooned, like she pitied the attempt, and stepped toward the kitchen. Lance’s incredulous look melted away shortly thereafter.

“Fuh- **Ash** -ist,” he said, all the seriousness leaving his voice as he relaxed back in his seat. “When’s Rosy gonna get here?”

“She should’ve been here a couple minutes ago,” answered Ash from the kitchen. She’d called and made up with Rosita while Lance took his forty-minute long shower. They’d decided before the spat that Rosita and Norm would pick up Ash on their way to the soiree; the only difference now being that Rosita would pick up Lance as well, and Norman would be working late (and consequently would have to arrive separately from and later than the rest of the group).

“Well, she’d better hurry up,” Lance shifted into a laying position, now lazily draped over the couch.

“Be nice, baby. I really want her to like you,” implored Ash, much more genuinely than earlier.

Lance closed his eyes and crossed his arms, saying, “Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, babe. I’ll treat her as if she were my own mother.”

“Oh God…” Ash murmured under her breath.

* * *

 

Rosita put the car in park and jumped out; she was already past-schedule, thanks to the traffic, and didn’t want to be _too_ fashionably late. She wobbled hastily up the stairs to the apartment building in her heels and opened the door. As she walked up the stairs, it occurred to her that this would be the first time she’d actually meet Ash’s boyfriend, and her pace slowed considerably. Up until this point, she’d managed to push her fears over he and Ash’s reunification to the back of her mind, telling herself that he couldn’t have been _that_ bad if Ash was willing to take him back. But now, standing in front of their door, she couldn’t help but to feel nervous.

No matter how she felt, time marched on just the same, so after only a moment of hesitation, she knocked on the apartment door and turned the handle. Making a mental note to remind Ash to keep her door locked, Rosita walked into the apartment.

“Hey, Big Mama!” Lance launched off the couch and onto his feet, and Ash groaning from the kitchen could be heard.

“H-hello,” was all Rosita could think to say as the porcupine rushed up and pulled her into a hug. “You must be Lance.”

“In the flesh,” he replied, pulling away from the embrace as his girlfriend walked into the living room, holding a juice box. Rosita could see why Ash liked him; he was handsome, even if his features were a little weak–had a deep, rhythmic voice, and seemed to be friendly enough.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” said Rosita, trying her best to smile through the strange encounter. Lance didn’t seem to have any idea how awkward he was making their meeting, keeping his hands on her shoulders and an over-enthusiastic grin plastered on his face.

“Let go of Rosita, baby; we’ve got to get to the party,” Ash toggled off the kitchen light and threw her empty juice box into a nearby trashcan.

“We can stay and visit for awhile, can’t we?” asked Lance to Ash, his tone just slightly less confident, and his eyes belying some greater trepidation.

“Well, we’re actually running kind-of late,” said Rosita gently, her finely-tuned emotional senses picking up on Lance’s apprehension.

“O-okay, if you say so,” Lance’s voice, while maintaining the intonation of enthusiasm, was now markedly diffident. After Ash made sure all the lights were off, the three stepped out of the apartment and, once Rosita made a point of telling Ash to lock her door, they walked out of the building altogether and into the biting night air. Once they got to Rosita’s nearby minivan, Lance pushed passed Ash and clambered into the passenger seat, leaving his girlfriend to sit alone in the back while he entertained himself at Rosita’s expense.

After a couple minutes and closing and reclosing car doors, buckling seatbelts and adjusting mirrors, they were on the road. It was quiet for a little while, Rosita trying to think of what to ask Lance, Ash trying to think of a way to defuse the silence, and Lance fidgeting over the encroaching party.

The atmosphere of the van only shifted once Lance rested an elbow on the console, smirking slyly, and started to give Rosita puppy-dog eyes, trying to get her attention. Once he did, he said, “I can see why Ash likes you so much.”

“Oh?” smiled Rosita, glancing over.

“Yeah… You know, her father’s a pig, too,” he continued, sitting up and looking back at his girlfriend.

“Wow, Lance, that joke gets funnier every time you tell it,” sighed Ash, crossing her arms (but secretly happy he’d broken the tension).

_“Louie would’ve liked it,”_ muttered Lance under his breath, falling back in his seat.

Rosita grinned bemusedly, trying to keep her eyes on the road. “What’s he mean, Ash?” she asked.

“My dad’s a cop,” answered Ash, leaning back.

“Really? I didn’t know that,” Rosita said, looking at Ash via the rearview mirror. Then she glanced over to see Lance had resumed his fidgeting. After a short pause in conversation, she asked him, “What does your father do, Lance?”

“I dunno,” he quickly answered, and emphatically, almost like he knew what she was going to ask before she did. “I had a step-dad, drove a bread truck–but he died of cancer awhile back. My mom and I don’t talk,” Lance ran his hand along the upholstery, blatantly admitting these personal things with a detached, almost upbeat tone of voice.

“Oh, well… I’m sorry to hear that,” said Rosita, taken aback by the dissonance between Lance’s tone and what he was saying. He only grunted in response, and the car went quiet again.

“I mean, my dad _used_ to be a musician. When I was growing up, he mainly just did–he mainly just did odd jobs around town, y’know? But he still kept a band together,” said Lance, now a little more invested in the conversation for whatever reason.

“So music runs in your family, then?” Rosita looked over, then back at the road.

Lance knew she’d say that. “Well, no… My father and I are the only ones. He came from the South, see, and he grew up really poor,” a caustic grin was starting to appear on Lance’s face, and Ash was getting suspicious. “On account of–well, see, our family used to be very affluent; well-to-do… But after Lincoln freed the slaves it destroyed the family business-”

“Lance!” Ash lunged forward and slugged her boyfriend’s shoulder, just as he burst into fits of laughter. “That’s not funny!”

“A-all I know is that the L’Estrange family plantation was thriving until the war of northern aggression!” he continued, sitting on the edge of his seat and just out of range of Ash’s hand.

“His family never had a plantation–he doesn’t even know what his family did,” said Ash to Rosita, who was trying not to grin.

“Oh, oh–she’s one to talk!” Lance’s shrieking laughter had devolved to a suppressed chuckle. “Ashley _Heilig?_ Doesn’t that sound _suspicious_ to you, mama?” he continued, eyebrow raised, while Ash made noises of protest as she swiped at him. “Y’know, they called her _‘Sieg’_ Heilig in high school-”

“ **You,** Lance! _You_ called me that in high school!” Ash fell back, giving up her assault, and Lance soon did the same.

“You thought that music runs in my family, but Ash’s father–but Ash’s father actually comes from a long line of policemen; secret policemen,” teased Lance. “All the way back to the Gestapo in the old country-”

Ash lurched forward again and smacked Lance’s arm, this time a little more playfully. “First of all, that isn’t true; and even if it were, that _long line_ of police would only be, like, three people-”

“Well, you would know, wouldn’t you?” he said, and Ash grinned a little. “Would you believe that I called her a fascist today, and she didn’t even disagree with me?” he asked Rosita, and smiled at Ash’s little giggle.

“I-... I’m not sure,” said Rosita, chuckling, and she looked over to see Lance sticking his head back to kiss Ash.

After twenty-or-so more minutes of Ash and Lance teasing each other, the trio had arrived at the venue, and stepped out of the van into the cold night air (Lance being the most reluctant to do so, his apprehension over the soiree obviously returning in force, even as he tried to hide it). Once his non-dress-shoed feet hit the concrete, and he closed the door to the vehicle, Ash could tell immediately that Lance was terribly anxious. While Rosita had already started toward the entrance to the place, Ash and Lance stayed next to the minivan, looking at one another in silence. She adjusted his tie, and he stood there like a slab of stone, wearing an emotionless expression that only Ash understood. Then she kissed him and took him by the hand, and they walked toward the double doors that led to the party.


End file.
